


On the Brink

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Major Character Injury, Serious Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 08:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12406428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik gets shot and is badly wounded, but the presence of Christine is a comfort to him.





	On the Brink

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by art by drawnby27emilys on Tumblr

He can't breathe, pain lancing deep into his side each time he draws breath. He tries holding a breath, but the air catches in his throat and he chokes on it, gasping, lungs burning, and each tight bit of air he draws through gritted teeth makes his head swim.

His fingers brush something wet, sticky, and he tries to raise them, tries to see what it is, but his arm is too heavy and it sinks back, back, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, blurring the world before him.

Not the darkness! Can't-can't give in to the darkness.

There are voices faint, faraway, snatches of words that wash over him, the pain dulling his thoughts. And a face, a sweet face, hovering over him, pale and pinched. She should not look so pale. Why is—why is she pale?

Trembling fingers cup his cheek, their touch soft and gentle. Her lips move, form a word, but with the ringing in his ears he cannot hear her, and can only stare, stare deep into her blue eyes, tears trickling from the corners of them. Why are there tears? Did he—did he do something wrong? Did he upset her? She always gets teary when he upsets her and it makes something inside of him twist.

He should apologise. That's what he is supposed to do when he upsets her, is it not?

Distantly he feels his lips move, but they are too clumsy to speak and she presses a finger to them to silence him, strokes a hand over his hair.

Cold, so cold, whole body shivering, pain burning.

She is fading, fading away with the rest of the world. No! She can't go! He can't be alone she needs to stay! She needs to be here! He needs her here! And in spite of the heaviness in his arm, he manages to raise it, and brush his fingers over her cheek, leaving a smear of—of blood under her eye.

Blood? That—that's peculiar. He was—was not bleeding before...

She lays her hand on top of his, and her touch is warm.

Her lips are gentle pressed to his knuckles, and tears burn his eyes, dim her further. Kissed. She kissed his knuckles. And his heart aches, and he tastes something hot and iron in his mouth, something that trails from the corner of his lips. Her fingers wipe it away, her lips twisting and more tears dripping from her eyes, splashing warm on his face. And his vision dims so that all he can see is grey, a sea of grey, before the darkness pulls him under.

A beat. A throb of pain in his chest. A whisper of "don't go". And he knows no more.

* * *

 

Hands. He is distantly aware of hands. Hands slapping his cheek though he does not feel any sting, his head lolling. Hands clutching at his clothes, pulling them. Hands curled around his own. Hand rubbing his breast, burying knuckles against the bone and the pain makes him shudder, makes him gasp a breath and then another and the hands vanish, fingers fumbling at his throat.

Dimly he sees light, sees blue eyes, then loses them again in the darkness.

* * *

 

He is aware of being carried, of movement. Aware of being laid down. Aware of pain, aching pain in his side and something probing, pressing into him.

"...lost a lot of blood...pulse thready...respirations weak...cyanosis of lips and fingernails..."

"Will he..."

"...may not...need...be prepared..."

* * *

 

Lips, sealed over his own, blowing air into his mouth. The lips disappear, come back, blow more air in and the air catches in his throat, chokes him and he coughs, coughs, lungs burning, side aching, and a sliver of light, fingers pressed against his throat.

* * *

 

Soft breaths against his neck, warm, tickling the hairs. A hand laid over his heart. His fingers twitch, shift, and the hand moves, curls around them, squeezes them.

"...all right now, Erik...all right..."

* * *

 

His eyes are heavy. His whole body is heavy, too heavy to move, and all he can do is lie there, and listen.

"I love you, Erik." Her voice is soft, gentle against his ear. "I know, I know you probably can't hear me with the morphine the doctor gave you, but I need to tell you. I'm sorry it took me so long to realise. I'm sorry I was so foolish. I'm sorry about Raoul. I'm sorry it had to happen like this, and I'm sorry for a great many other things, too. But I love you. I love you so much, and the thought of not having you, of you— I can't bear it. I need you too much, Erik. I need you."

If he could, if he were able to speak, now, were not so tired, he would tell her he loves her too, that she has nothing to be sorry for. But he is so tired, and the words are just out of his reach. All he can manage is a whimper, low in his throat, and then she is shushing him again, and smoothing a hand over his hair, and squeezing his fingers.

"Just rest, Erik. Just rest. We can talk later, I promise."

_Later. Promise. Later._

Later. There will be time for, for everything then. And he sighs, faintly feels lips pressed to the corner of his own, and the press of those lips goes with him as sleep bears him away.

 


End file.
